My father and I were very alike in temperament and attitude; so much so that we would often argue. Nevertheless, we had a good relationship and he taught me a lot about my heritage and the wonderful and large family I was part of.
He smoked and maintained this habit until he was well into his early 70s. As he aged he started calling me in the evenings, asking why he had found himself on the kitchen floor (he lived alone after my mother died). I had no idea at all and assumed initially that he had simply fallen and bumped his head and told him to call the doctor, or an ambulance if he felt very unwell. It turned out to be much more serious; he was experiencing transient ischaemic attacks (TIAs) brought on through damaged blood vessels in his brain, aggravated by his decades of smoking.
These TIAs became more frequent until he was eventually diagnosed with vascular dementia and moved into a lovely nursing home nearer to me. I visited several times each week and although he was, on occasion, disorientated, he seemed settled and content. However, on one of these evening visits, when I went into his room, he looked at me strangely. One of his sisters was also visiting him at the same time and as I entered the room, she asked my dad who I was, whereupon, my dad looked at me blankly … he didn’t know who I was. The memory thief had stabbed me through my heart.
Eileen D. From the Menopausal Mumblings blog
Younique Memories 